


Roadhouse Girl

by dark_roast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-12
Updated: 2010-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_roast/pseuds/dark_roast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo Harvelle always thought she'd go to Heaven when she died. Probably. But, instead of sitting on a cloud and playing a harp for all eternity, Jo found herself at the Roadhouse -- the afterworld version. Just another watering hole along the Axis Mundi: the road passing through Heaven and Hell, and all the territories between.</p><p>Here, the night never ends, the drinks never stop flowing... and everybody comes to Harvelle's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roadhouse Girl

**Author's Note:**

> AU after 5x10, "Abandon all Hope." Takes place an indeterminate time afterward. Written for the [SPN ReverseBang Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_reversebang/), and based on art created by [Astralavator](http://astralavator.livejournal.com/121113.html).

Nebraska. The afterlife. Not much difference. Same wide-open land, same endless road.

Jo likes to stand outside and look up at the sky, watching the veils of flickering light sweep across it, the brilliant constellations wheeling overhead, nearly close enough to touch. Cool wind lifts her hair off her shoulders. A full moon hangs like a huge silver searchlight, never waning, never setting. The eye of God, her mom calls it. If so, God's watching, but He's not seeing.

The Axis Mundi isn't really a road. Well, sometimes it's a road. Sometimes it's a pillar or a ladder, sometimes a tree or a river; sometimes a column of smoke by day, and a pillar of fire by night. It's all in how you look at things. When Jo looks at the Axis Mundi, she sees a highway.

On her way back in, she stops to scoop a bucket of ice from the cooler, slams the lid down, and muscles the bucket through the swinging door between the kitchen and the bar. Maybe this isn't Heaven, but it's Heaven enough for Jo.

Harvelle's is packed. It's like Saturday night every night, or maybe it's all the same Saturday night. She's not sure. Time goes all funky on the Axis Mundi, like light waves bending around the event horizon of a black hole.

The jukebox is thumping out a baseline, but that's all she can hear over the hum of a hundred overlapping conversations. Demons and ex-humans and every kind of creature -- some she never met while she was hunting -- are three deep at the bar. Ruby's slinging drinks to the customers as fast as she can.

Ruby's not so bad from the back. If Jo concentrates, she can see through Ruby's buzzing demon-smoke to what must have been Ruby's meat suit: a slim, black-haired girl in a red tank top and jeans. Ruby's the only demon bartender they've got, which is lucky, because Jo can't tell demons apart until they start talking. That sounds bigoted, but it's just because she can't make herself look straight at them, most of the time.

Ruby's a decent bartender. Sure, she sucks at prep and clean-up, but she can serve drinks way faster than Jo or Ellen, because she's not locked down to two hands. She's got friends in common with the Harvelles, according to her. Jo doesn't remember Dean or Sam ever mentioning being friends with a demon. But, Ruby's all right, considering. While there's an Apocalypse down on earth and a war up in Heaven, almost everyone who dies ends up stuck here in between.

Jo walks around behind the bar. Hefting the bucket, she pours the ice into the well behind the speed rack. They're almost out of tequila. During Jo's ten minute break, Ruby has managed to go through almost a whole bottle. Jo turns around to check the shelf, but as usual, Ruby has neglected to stock any back-up booze.

"Jo," Ruby says in her ear.

The noise level is a steady roar. It's like a perfect cone of silence.

"Need a favor. Need you to hang onto something for me."

Jo braces herself, and looks at her. Ruby doesn't look offended like she usually does, so Jo thinks maybe she managed to control most of her instinctive flinch. Jo's attention goes immediately to what Ruby's got in her hand: a small glass sphere about the size of a jawbreaker. Two brilliant sparks of light orbit one another inside, like twin stars. Angel graces. Ruby closes her hand over the orb.

"Don't even," Jo says. One thing never stopped traveling on the Axis Mundi, and that's news. Especially juicy news. "I know what those are, and I know where you got them."

Ruby shrugs. "Anybody could've killed those angels."

She's got a point. The Heavenly Host are killing one other as often as the soldiers of Hell kill them.

Jo gives her a one-sided smile. "Uh-uh. So, you're saying somebody else killed them?"

Ruby huffs. "Jo. Come on. Only for a little while. I can get out of here. Find someplace where nobody can come after me."

"They're worth a fortune," Jo says. "How do you know I won't swap them myself?"

"Because you won't. You've got everything you want right here. And because you don't like the angels any better than you like demons. You're not going to take sides, and that's why nobody's going to suspect you've got them. After I trade them, you and your mom will never see me again."

Jo holds out her hand. "A little while. That's all."

Ruby presses the ball of glass into Jo's hand. It's warm, almost hot. As soon as it's passed from Ruby to Jo, Ruby turns around and starts pouring drinks again.

 _Guess I shouldn't expect a demon to say thank you,_ Jo thinks.

"What can I getcha?" Ruby asks the mournful-looking Rugaru leaning both elbows on the bar.

Jo slips the jawbreaker into the front pocket of her jeans. She likes Ruby (sort of). It'd be more correct to say that she mostly not-hates Ruby. But anything that means one less demon around here will be more than fine with Jo and her mom -- even though Ruby's right that the Harvelles aren't taking sides anymore. Taking sides is what got Jo's whole family killed.

Once the sides have sorted themselves out, Jo would like to think she'd take a side for the good and right and true, and never mind that's the whole reason why she died in the first place. Before she got ripped apart by a Hellhound, before her mom found her here, the worst thing that could happen to Jo was that people she loved would die defending what they believed. She doesn't know what she believes anymore, and she doesn't know what's possible on the spectrum of Horrible Things That Can Happen to Folks Who Are Already Dead.

Jo slides the empty bucket under the sink, then heads through the swinging door to the storeroom again, for more tequila. She's on the way back with two bottles of Sauza, when wind rushes through the roadhouse, and the whole place blazes up like the grill has caught fire. It's an angel. An _angel_ for fuck's sake. Angels never come to the Roadhouse. Jo has only ever seen angels in the faraway distance, the vast wedges of their wings eclipsing the sky.

Somehow, the angel fits inside the Roadhouse, yet still it seems unspeakably immense. She feels her body go all weak and trembly. Conversation drops dead, as the crowd turns wary and watchful. Some of the humans and some of the creatures fall to their knees. The urge to humble herself is overwhelming. It feels hardwired into her brain. A reflex, like pulling her hand away from a hot stove burner. Those shepherds watching o'er their flocks by night, falling down in terror when an one of the Host pops in to say howdy? Yeah. Jo gets that now.

On the plus side, she can hear the jukebox. It's playing "Comfortably Numb," and she wishes she was. The angel looks around the room. It doesn't have to turn its head: it has four faces. The one staring at Jo is a bull. It spreads its wings, all six of them, all studded with golden eyes. Jo's Hunter-brain kicks in, identifying it as a seraph. An _archangel_. For fuck's sake. It doesn't want a frosty beer and a bacon cheeseburger. She's absolutely positive about that.

"Ruby," says the angel.

Its voice isn't loud, and still the bottles behind the bar chatter and the windows rattle in their frames, and the jukebox stutters into silence, or maybe Jo's gone deaf. Her brain fills with a high white hum. The stolen graces in her pocket ring like a struck tuning fork, and the piercing reverberation of the seraph's voice doesn't fade away. Jo clenches her teeth.

Ruby walks out from behind the bar. Not struggling or swearing. Not calm and humble, either. She's terrified, unable to look up at the seraph. Her black, black eyes find Jo instead, and Jo feels sudden, stomach-plunging compassion. Jo is sure Ruby killed those angels, the same way Jo is sure Ruby has spilled gallons of blood and laughed -- but all the same. All the same, they've worked shoulder to shoulder behind the bar for a long time through this endless, timeless night, and there are worse things than Hell for a demon.

Jo can't read the look on Ruby's twisted horror of a face. Is she telling Jo to keep silent? Begging for help? She has know Jo won't help her. Can't possibly help her.

She finds herself edging toward the rear wall, bumping up against the jukebox that pulses mutely with colored lights. The Roadhouse has the same jukebox it always did: a hideous Wurlitzer Fuego, manufactured the year Jo was born. It doesn't take coins anymore. It just plays and plays. Except when an angel shows up, apparently.

"Where are they?" says the seraph.

Ruby squares her shoulders. Shakes her hair back. But she still can't look at it.

"Go to hell," she says.

"If necessary." Its human face smiles a smile full of pitiless promise. "Your continuing loyalty to Lucifer is admirable. Even though it means you're doomed."

Jo bends down and quickly slips the jawbreaker from her pocket into the coin return slot of the jukebox. The metal flap closes over it, concealing it from view.

Ruby says, "Even if I wasn't loyal to Lord Lucifer, I'd still be trying to screw you over, Zachariah."

The seraph's name pings in Jo's memory. She's got no reason to think so, but she thinks maybe Ruby addressed Zachariah by name on purpose. For Jo's benefit.

Zachariah laughs, and lifts its hand, two fingers upraised. "I can't help respecting that."

It touches Ruby on the forehead. A flash of light, and Ruby's gone. Jo has no idea if she's just seen Ruby being sent to Hell, or someplace else, or totally obliterated. Zachariah sweeps one more look around the Roadhouse, and folds its wings. The ringing in Jo's ears falls silent.

Jo realizes that, as the _de facto_ Harvelle, a show of authority is now expected of her. She's terrified and she wants her mom, and Ellen chose the worst possible time to go road-tripping with Ash. You can drive a long way along the Axis Mundi without getting anywhere, but the scenic overlooks are spectacular.

Jo walks up the seraph, swinging both bottles of Sauza loosely in one hand by the necks.

"You finished?" Her voice comes out mostly cool and level. She's used to facing down the bigger, the stronger, the scarier. But, not this big and strong and scary.

"That depends," Zachariah replies, "on how cooperative your bartender is."

"I don't appreciate you threatening my customers," she says, hoping her worry for Ruby doesn't show on her face.

"We're at war."

"So I've heard. But, the Axis Mundi is neutral territory. Everybody's welcome at Harvelle's. Even your kind. So long as you behave yourself."

Zachariah sneers down at her. Far, far, far down -- as if to say he's got better things to do than waste eternity at the Roadhouse. "I'm looking for two angelic graces. Stolen from my soldiers. My _murdered_ soldiers. I'm sure you've heard that as well."

Jo nods.

Zapping a single demon out of the Roadhouse is one thing. Going up against a bar full of demons and monsters and lost souls, and not many of them feeling friendly toward Heaven right now... well, that's another thing. Zachariah's not going to risk it. Not all by himself.

He smiles that creepy-cold smile again. "The moment you hear anything, I'm sure you'll send me a prayer."

"You'll be first on my list."

A crack of thunder, and Zachariah's gone. The silence collapses, the hum of conversation rises, and the jukebox starts playing. Jo catches a fragment of REO Speedwagon; Kevin Cronin warbling about how he can't fight this feeling anymore, and she wonders if the juke acquired angelic sentience, because that's when the Roadhouse door opens and the Winchester brothers walk in.

Jo stands there with her mouth hanging open.

Dean says, "Hey, Jo."

Goddammit. Oh, Dean. Goddammit all to Hell. He is still as incandescent as the brightest angel of Heaven's army, still just painful for her to look at, and still just as far out of her reach. Even with her last darkness closing around her, with Death's hand lifting her from her mother's arms, it was Dean she regretted.

Where they left things the last time they saw one another... well, in retrospect, it seems ridiculous that Dean would kiss her goodbye like it was the very last time, because here he is again. Stuck between worlds, same as she is. Stuck here, with her. Talk about your awkward reunions.

Because he's dead, Jo realizes. They're both dead. Dean and Sam Winchester are here because they're dead.

"What..." she says. It's like talking through a mouthful of Novocaine. "What happened?"

Dean scrubs the back of his head with one hand. Sam slides both hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Hunters," Dean said. "Got the jump on us. Shot us."

Sam lifts his hands, still in his pockets. "They were kinda... displeased about me starting the Apocalypse."

"How long's it been since I died?"

Dean flinches.

"About three months," Sam says. "Good to see you, Jo."

"Yeah," Dean says.

Okay. Enough with the awkward. "How about a couple cold beers?"

She doesn't give the brothers a chance to answer, just walks back to the bar. She sets down the tequila bottles and grabs a couple of Millers out of the cooler. When she turns around again, Dean and Sam are settling themselves on adjacent stools.

"Place looks good, Jo," Dean says.

"Not exactly my idea of everlasting peace and glory," she replies as she opens the bottles. "Times are tough."

"I'm sorry," Sam says.

"For dying? It's not like you held hands and drove off a cliff like Thelma and Louise."

"Under the circumstances..."

"Under the circumstances --" She puts a bottle in front of each brother. "-- drink your beer, Sam."

Sam will not be deterred. "You sacrificed everything. You and Ellen." He lifts a hand again, lets it thump to the bar top. "How is Ellen anyway? Is she here?"

"Not right now."

"But she's _here_ -here. You're together."

"Yes," Jo says. "There's that. And it's a lot."

Sam drinks his beer. Dean scoops a handful of peanuts out of the nearby bowl.

"Jo," he says, "we're looking for a demon named Ruby."

"Huh," Jo says.

"Unpack 'huh' for me, okay?"

"Ruby said she knew you. But, you know how demons are."

Dean and Sam exchange glances. Sam clears his throat, and sits up straighter.

"So, Ruby _is_ here," Dean says.

Jo shakes her head. "You missed her by about a minute. A seraph showed up and -- " She snaps her fingers.

"Did this seraph have a name?" Sam asks.

"Ruby called him Zachariah."

Dean blows out a breath.

Sam says, "Aw, fuck."

Well, this is interesting. This news is brand-new news.

Technically, the Axis Mundi isn't inescapable. Angels and powerful demons have enough mojo to move themselves from place to place. Or send others to Hell. Angels can lift somebody to Heaven. Or, you can make a deal with a lower-level demon, if you've got something to trade. Like your soul. Or, say... a couple of stolen graces. You could trade those graces to any demon, any bush-league god, any less-than-upstanding servant of Heaven, for pretty much anything you want. A free ride anywhere.

"You're looking for the graces," she says.

"Did Ruby have them?" Dean asks.

Jo shakes her head. She could just tell them, but she wants to hear everything. She refills the dish of peanuts that Dean has already nearly emptied.

"Why do you want them?"

Dean takes another handful of peanuts. "Because every time we try and stop the Apocalypse, it's like that Dutch boy and the dike, you know? We're running out of fingers to stick into holes."

Sam chokes on his beer, and Jo laughs, and Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on, already."

This time, the rush of wind is strong enough to make the fluorescents flicker and a gust of napkins swirl to the floor. Dean grabs the peanut bowl as everybody stops talking again, and Jo wonders if Zachariah posted Harvelle's on the angelic version of Yelp or something, because it's not him coming back. It's one of the Ophanim, the angels whose official job it is to carry the throne of God, though there's not much call for that nowadays.

Nested wheels spin around one another, covered in golden eyes, limned in fire. It looks like an orrery. Jo knows that she is only seeing part of it, the part her mind will allow her to see. The rest of the Ophan soars away into unguessable heights and dimensions.

Jo realizes she knows those eyes. Wise and kind and slightly sad. It's Castiel. She's looking at _Castiel_. The moment she knows him, her fear is gone.

Her mind tries to reconcile what she's seeing, with the host body she knows. Castiel's rumpled tan trench coat, his bed-head, his inability to understand the concept of personal space. And suddenly she sees Castiel the way she remembers, even while she's seeing his true form. He stands awkwardly at the bar, hands at his sides, watching the other customers leave. Two angels a night are too many angels, apparently.

"Hi, Cas," Jo says."Want a beer?"

Castiel fixes her with his big blue eyes. "Hello, Jo."

Jo takes that as a yes. She gets another beer out of the cooler, pops the cap, and hands it to him.

"Why can't you just bamf the Winchesters out of here?" she says. "I thought angels could do that."

Castiel looks at Dean. Partway, he's asking for an okay to talk about what they're planning, and partway it's something else. Like Dean's the last bottle of water in the fridge when you're so tired and thirsty, your throat feel like burning paper, and there it sits with a droplet sliding down through the mist of condensation like a strip-tease zipper pull, teasing you with what's inside; and you can hear it, the crack of the cap seal breaking; and you can taste it, liquid bliss on your tongue, cold filling your stomach, never mind the pain that's gonna slam you between the eyes a second later. You just want to drink and drink and drink, and that's Dean Winchester. Always the wanting, never the having.

Dean shrugs as if to say why the hell not. The Roadhouse is now empty except for Cas, and the Winchesters, and Jo. And the jukebox, playing Black Dog.

Dean says to Castiel, "So, Zachariah was here. We missed him, by about a minute. He's got Ruby, too."

"That isn't good," Castiel says.

"Yeah, no shit."

"Ruby didn't have the graces," Sam adds. "Not on her, anyway."

"I still don't understand why you want them," Jo says. "If you're not going to use them to trade."

Castiel answers, "The deaths of Chandriel and Variel are regrettable, but a very fortunate solution for us, since Dean and Sam are both angelic vessels."

"We can't fight Zachariah and Lucifer as humans," Dean adds. "But, now we don't have to be hand-puppets, either."

"Now you can die on equal footing," Jo says. "Super."

Sam makes a face.

"I could have saved you," Dean tells her. "You and Ellen both."

"They would've brought bigger guns, Dean. They _always_ bring bigger guns. I'm sorry if I'm not jazzed about your latest plan to get yourself killed. Again."

Sam's long-lidded hazel eyes narrow, and Jo thinks maybe he knows. Not where the stolen graces are, maybe not even that she knows where they are... but that she knows more than she's telling.

"Jo, can I talk to you for a sec?" he says.

She feels herself flush. He knows, he knows. She tosses down her bar rag. Dean and Cas watch them curiously, Dean with a hint of a frown. But the frown is directed at Sam, rather than at her. Sam follows her into the kitchen. The door swings shut, cutting off the noise of the jukebox, and all Jo hears is the tick and hum of the big refrigerators. She's forgotten how big Sam is. He towers over her in the narrow hallway that's made even narrower by piled up cartons of beer bottles and stacked packs of napkins.

"Do you know where the graces are?" he says.

"Why do you think I wouldn't just tell you, if I did know?"

"Because you think you can talk Dean into sticking around."

Jo scowls, stung at being read so easily. "I know you can't stay here."

"But, you've got options," Sam replies. "You can make a deal, and you don't even have to offer your soul. In the whole span of human history, Dean can't be the only vessel for Michael. You could find another one, with some digging. So to speak. Bring it back to life."

She's half horrified, half impressed. She hadn't even been thinking that far ahead. He sees the look on her face, and laughs.

"That's what I would've done."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because it's not enough," Sam murmurs. There's a faraway look on his face for a second, then he's with her in the back hallway again. "I'm the kind of guy who believes that if you want a job done right, you do it yourself."

Jo gets that.

"Anyway, I know Dean. He won't stay here. Or anywhere. He can't. He does care about you Jo, but it's just... not in him."

Jo glances away from Sam. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not handing me stupid shit about how if you love something, set it free. For not telling me Dean won't stay because I'm not enough for him."

Sam presses his lips together. Frowns. Then he says, "Maybe Dean's not enough for you." His voice is rough with annoyance. "Ever think about that?"

She's thought about that, except it never really sticks. Not for long.

"Maybe if you stopped thinking about _Dean_ all the time," Sam says.

He sounds exactly like a snotty baby brother. Jo should laugh, but she can't. In all the time she's known Sam, he's never given a hint. Not a clue. Sam's played it so close, she never suspected. Maybe she's just never noticed. Maybe she's spent all this time chasing Dean because nobody's given her a reason to stop chasing him.

"Sam," she says.

He shoves his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie again. His hair falls over his forehead. "If you know where those graces are, then tell me, Jo, because I don't want to lose myself. Not again. I don't want to be a monster. I know I can be a champion asshole, but I'm still me. Besides...Dean likes brunettes."

"Hm. Funny. I was just about to tell you that you aren't an asshole."

Sam pulls her close against his wall of a chest, his hands gently gripping her arms. Hands that, Jo can't help noticing, are very large and very warm. He's going to kiss her, Sam is going to kiss her, and Jo's heart starts beating harder; and then Sam does kiss her, soft and slow, and he's holding himself back like he's wanted to kiss her for a long, long time. Jo slides her arms around his waist. There's a lot of Sam to hold onto. There's _acres_ of Sam, and it all feels like muscles, and Jo is okay with that. Yes. Definitely okay with that.

A gust of air sweeps the hallway. Jo and Sam jump apart, and Jo is already blushing again, awash in confusion and embarrassment and a wanting so new, it's still raw. The pressure of Sam's lips tingles on hers. She expects to see either Dean, or her mom. But, it's Castiel. The swinging door behind him isn't swinging.

"I would like another beer," he says. "And potentially, a cheeseburger and fries."

"Ask Dean."

"Dean told me to ask you."

"You always do what Dean tells you?"

"No."

She wouldn't have thought it possible for a gigantic, fiery wheel-in-a-wheel covered with eyes to look shifty.

Castiel adds, "Dean also wanted me to ask you what the... hell you two are doing back here."

Jo shoves between Castiel and Sam, and bursts through the swinging door back into the Roadhouse, which now is completely empty except for Dean, who's sitting at the bar with yet another fistful of peanuts -- and all of a sudden she's had it with all three of them.

"Stop eating those!"

Dean freezes, clutching the handful of peanuts. Jo stomps across the room toward the jukebox, which is now playing Flock of Seagulls' _Send Me an Angel_ , which is not even one of the tracks loaded on it. Fucking jukebox. Fucking angels. Fucking _Winchesters_.

She hears Castiel say from behind her, "I don't understand. Is this because I didn't say please?"

Dean says, "You're the expert, Sam. Can you still get PMS when you're dead?"

 _"Dude,"_ Sam chides him.

And Jo sort of loves Sam for that. Not like she's starting to wonder what she ever saw in Dean. Much.

She pushes the metal coin flap back with her fingers, seized by a brief and terrible fear that the graces are gone. That someone has taken them. But, they sparkle in the shadow of the coin slot. Jo pulls out the glass jawbreaker and, cupping it in her hands, walks back to the bar.

"You had them the whole time," Dean says.

He doesn't sound accusing, only surprised. Like he's _not_ surprised that Jo would hesitate before handing over the graces.

"Thank you," Sam says.

"You have to promise me something first," Jo says. "All three of you. You have to help Ruby."

Another speaking look passes between Dean and Sam. Sam's eyes are dark. Several expressions flit across his face, before he decides on careful blankness.

Jo adds, "I know Ruby's a demon, and I know you've got history. But, you wouldn't even have the graces if it weren't for her. Just... get her away from Zachariah. Please."

Castiel holds out his hand for the graces. "We will. I promise."

Jo drops the glass ball into his cupped palm. "That's all I'm asking."

Dean hops off his bar stool and comes over to stand by Castiel, and Sam moves forward as well. Jo knows it's wiser to stand back.

Sam says, "Who goes first?"

Dean taps himself on the nose. "Not it."

Castiel answers, "If Sam is able to successfully absorb an angelic grace, considering his taint --"

"Cas." Dean holds up a hand. "I never want to hear another word about Sam's taint. Ever."

Jo coughs, covering her burst of startled laughter, and Sam flings up his hands in annoyance, and Castiel looks mildly impatient. He doesn't even bother asking what he said.

"If I can hold onto a grace, then Dean can," Sam says. "Right?"

Castiel nods. "Right."

Jo says, "What happens if he can't?"

"I don't know," Castiel says. "I imagine the results will be unpleasant."

Sam squares his shoulders. "Does it matter who gets which grace?"

Castiel nods. "In a way. You won't be vessels for Chandriel and Variel, because Chandriel and Variel no longer exist. All the same, the graces should decide for themselves."

Castiel closes his hand around the glass ball, but when he opens his fingers, the ball is gone. Two sparks of light dance in the air just a few inches above his cupped palm. Jo holds her breath. She's worried the graces will just dart out of the Roadhouse like fireflies, or that one will choose Dean, and the other will refuse Sam.

The graces float above Castiel's palm like they're confabbing. Then, one of them lifts off and approaches Sam. He tenses. The grace seems to hesitate in turn. The other stays close to Castiel. Jo hadn't considered this scenario: that one grace would choose Sam, whereas the other one wouldn't want Dean.

Castiel murmurs to Sam, "Open yourself. Let it enter you."

For once Dean doesn't say a thing. He watches wide-eyed, as Sam forces himself to relax, clenching both fists at his sides, then opening his hands. The grace touches him on the chest and vanishes. It's nothing but Sam, waiting, and all of them waiting. Sam doubles like he's been punched in the stomach, the breath going out of him in a sharp grunt. He's wrenched upright again, spine arching, arms outflung, fingers grasping, fighting for purchase though there's nothing in reach. His eyes blaze gold. He fills with light, the Roadhouse fills with light. The high, singing is in Jo's ears again. Everything in the Roadhouse starts shaking. She hears glass smashing. Dean yells, "Sam!" -- and the second grace rockets at him and Dean is on fire, and he is beautiful -- they are both _so beautiful_ that Jo lifts a hand to shield her eyes. There's a massive, rolling crack like a sonic boom and Jo goes airborne for an instant before she crashes down on a table.

The next thing she knows, she's lying on the floor, staring up at shattered fluorescent panels and huge scorch-marks shaped like wings. Her ears are still ringing.

"Whoops," says Dean.

Footsteps crunch over shattered glass, and then all three of them bend over her.

"We should've done that outside," says Castiel. "I apologize."

"Jo, are you okay?" Sam says.

"I..." Jo says.

She looks from one Winchester to the other. Dean still looks like Dean and Sam still looks like Sam. Sam looks worried. His eyes are deep golden, and so are Dean's; and Jo senses rather than sees the spreading presence of wings above her. She can see their true forms overlaid on the brothers she knows, the same way she can sees Castiel's true form. But, Dean and Sam are shadowy and shifting, as if the graces are waiting for the brothers to shape them.

"Maybe she's got a concussion," Sam says.

"You can't get a concussion when you're dead."

"You don't know that."

"Guys?" Jo lifts up her hands.

Dean and Sam reach down. Each one grabs a hand, lifting Jo to her feet.

All the tables and chairs are bowled over, but the only broken table is the one she broke. The jukebox is dark and silent. Only one of the overhead lights has actually fallen off the ceiling. The others are merely destroyed. The two bottles of Sauza she brought out of the back room are still standing. Everything else is on the floor, and the air stings with spilled booze. Wing marks are burned all over the walls. The two front windows are blown out, and the door hangs drunkenly on a single hinge.

Jo doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Oh my God. My mom is going to kill me."

"We'll help you clean up," Dean says.

She brushes cinders and bits of glass off her top and her jeans, then she runs her fingers through her hair, shaking out more bits of debris.

"No, you'd better go," she says, undercutting the awkward goodbyes before they even start. Castiel's plan worked, and they're angels, and this means she's losing them all over again. Both of them. "Zachariah's going to come looking for you."

Dean shifts from foot to foot. "We'll be back, Jo. We're not going to forget --"

Sam pulls Jo into his arms, and Dean breaks off with a small and startled, "Hey..." Then, "Hey!" as Sam kisses Jo again, quick and fierce. Not holding back at all this time.

"What the hell, Sam?"

Sam ignores him, stepping away from Jo. "See you soon," he says to Jo, and touches her cheek.

He's gone with a whoosh of wind that flutters her hair.

"What the hell?" Dean says again.

Jo shrugs. "You had your chance."

Dean huffs. Then he's gone, too.

They'll be back. Sam for sure. And where there's one Winchester brother, the other one is never far behind. Only Castiel's left standing in the empty Roadhouse. Jo quirks her eyebrows at him.

"I'll help restore order," he says, then adds with a touch of wryness, "Here, if nowhere else."

"Thanks, Cas."

Jo rights a toppled chair. Aside from the angel graffiti, she can probably clean up most mess in a couple hours. The wing-burns might even give the Roadhouse a battle-scarred _cachet_. Or, maybe some 409 and elbow grease will take them off. Castiel seems unsure about where to start, then the Roadhouse is magically -- angelically -- not trashed anymore. The juke whirs to life and Kelly Clarkson starts singing "Behind These Hazel Eyes. Jo looks around, startled.

"You're welcome," says Castiel. He sits down on a bar stool. "Kelly is still my favorite among the idols. There is a commandment against idolatry, but there's some flexibility in the definition."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that."

As Jo comes around behind the bar, Castiel props his chin in his hand. He looks tired. She can sympathize. Boy, can she ever. "Winchesters with super-powers, Cas. You sure about this?"

Castiel picks up a peanut from the dish, and examines it from several angles, as if it's a gorgeously faceted diamond. "Yes," he says to the peanut. "Dean and Sam may be instrumental in turning the tide of the war. They may even succeed in vanquishing Lucifer." He lifts his eyes to meet Jo's. "All the same, I would like a cold one, please. For the road."

***


End file.
